Rain is rain. It's no different in California than it is in New York. It falls the same, it's of the same substance. It feeds the flowers and fills up swimming pools.
For something so simple it asks a lot of us.
To stay in, or to go out?
To sleep, or to be profound?
To cry, or to beam?
To be still, or to dance?
Rain brings passion in love and in hate. It brings joy and immense sorrow. It feeds the mind of some who write
What about rain is so emotional?
It has been said that rain on your wedding day is bad luck. If this is so, then why is kissing in the rain considered such a romantic thrill?
If it brings you any comfort, rain can't make up it's mind about what it wants to be either.
To bring life, or to beat?
To cool, or to humidify?
To come in peace, or to destroy?
To exist quietly, or to rumble?
In a way, rain is its own little Shakespeare; simultaneously confusing and profound.
I suppose "To be, or not to be?" will always be the question?
It rained all day and my hair is frizzy...you never know what you're going to get from me with that combination.
-Lo.
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